Whiskey is my Kind of Lullaby
by InsteadOfSleeping
Summary: 'You're twelve the first time you have a drink. You think you've unlocked the secret that everyone was keeping from you all along. This is what normal feels like. You drink yourself to sleep that night.' Jade discovers and succumbs to alcohol. BADE.


**This is AU, since obviously Jade did not suffer from alcoholism in the TV show. But a lot goes on between commercial breaks, you know? It is absolutely not my intention to glorify alcohol and/or drug use, but as they say, write what you know.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Victorious.**

 **Also, title of the story is a song by Johnny Hobo and the Freight Trains, listen to it.**

~6 years old~

You learn early in life that actions speak louder than words.

Your mother kisses your forehead in the morning, but she's laughing into her cell phone, and you haven't spent time with her in days, and then she's gone, and it's just her deep red lipstick stuck to your forehead, and you, legs dangling in the chair.

Your father left hours ago, for work. And it's quiet.

You really hate the quiet. Nothing can break it, no matter how hard you try to be a good daughter, your mother is still absent, and your father is still emotionless.

You're not always alone though. You have Maria, until one day, you color a picture of you and Maria for kindergarten, and you label her 'mama Maria', and the next week she's gone, and a new nanny is there to cook, and play, and raise you.

You cry for Maria for weeks, and your mother holds you and tells you that she had to go home, to her family, but its ok, because you have her and your father. You don't feel like you have them at all.

~7 years old~

The new nanny stays exactly one year, you're crushed.

Your mother takes you to Disneyland for a week, and you have so much fun you forget to miss her.

And when you get home from your trip there is a new woman there to raise you, she's older than the last two and she smiles a lot, bending over to make eye contact with you every time she speaks to you in that slow voice. It's annoying. You aren't stupid, you know how this works at this point.

Your mother kisses your forehead on her way out the door, two days later. She says that she needs a vacation, and you wonder why because you and she had just had a vacation.

She's gone for 3 weeks and she sounds so relaxed and happy when she calls at night that you finally figure it out; she needed a vacation _because_ you'd just had one. She needed a vacation from you.

It hurts more than you'd care to admit—who exactly would you admit it to, anyway? —and you quietly begin to resent her the way you've resented your father for years.

You burn inside with the desire for someone to notice that you're not fine, but the unrealistic expectations for your parents to care for you the way you need are killing you.

So, you make it easier. You stop talking to her about the things that plague you. The things you used to tell her but never tell your father. It's hard at first, because you realize quickly that there isn't really anyone you can share these things with. You don't like the other kids at school, or really, they don't like you. You think about trying to be something you're not, like the happy, sweet girls that everyone likes, but it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. So, you say something snarky, but true, and watch everyone around you get closer as you get more isolated.

It gets easier being alone, you begin to think that you like it better this way. Rejection is still a dull throb in your bones, but really, the pain, feels okay.

The year rolls by uneventfully. Your nanny continues to pretend that you have no idea that your parents don't care what you do, and you tell her off sometimes, but it doesn't change anything. Your father gets a promotion at work and he and your mother stop talking almost altogether.

~10 years old~

One month before school is about to end for the summer your mother comes into your room and asks you where you want to go on your annual 'girls' vacay' (or 'nanny swap' as you prefer to call it) and you pull the brochures out from under the pillow, the ones you've been saving for weeks and weeks, afraid to make the first move.

You expect, or maybe just hope, to see hurt in her eyes when you tell her you want to go to acting camp instead of on a trip with her. But she only looks intrigued, and maybe a little relieved.

She signs you up the next day, and your father and she argue about it 4 hours later. You hear him yell about what a waste of time acting camp would be, how you should focus on your studies instead. He relents immediately when your mother tells him that he would have to care for you alone if he wanted to cancel the acting camp, as she's made plans already and the new nanny won't start until July.

Acting camp is amazing, you lose yourself in the workshops, and you get chosen as one of the leads in the end of session play. You don't make any friends, but that doesn't bother you because you don't want them. You have enough people in your life that lie to you, and don't really want to be around you. So, you make it easier for everyone involved, and you push them away, you say means things and justify it to yourself because they're still true. And it hurts a lot that no one pushes back, but you suppose you can't blame them for something you're doing (but you still do).

When you get back your mother looks different. She tells you she got some things enhanced—you roll your eyes because she thinks you're so naive—and introduces you to your new nanny. You've started to hate this part more than the goodbyes, and that thought scares you a little.

You know she'll leave in a year anyway, and it's so exhausting figuring someone out, so you don't. You walk up to your room and close the door hard, and you lay on your bed for hours, trying to hold onto to a feeling other than apathy.

The new nanny knocks on your door around dinner time, and you learn that your mother has left again, to 'convalesce' on the beach somewhere.

Your mother is only gone a matter of weeks before you notice that the new nanny spends way more time with your father than any of the other ones; that your father is around instead of at work. Your mother returns before school starts, and everything implodes.

You'd known all summer that your father was spending too much time with the nanny, and your mother figures it out soon enough as well.

You listen to music and lay in the dark, drowning out the screaming, or filling the silence, it's always one of the two.

~12 years old~

You're twelve the first time you have a drink.

You haven't been outside in what feels like days, and the silence in the big house is deafening. You remember your parents drinking from the liquor cabinet and relaxing, and you figure it's better than shredding more throw pillows with scissors.

It's like you've blinked and suddenly the world is in color.

You're drunk almost instantly. You feel light and free, but also more solid than you've ever felt before. You laugh, it bubbles up from your gut, and suddenly you're struck with the image of all those perfect, happy, nice girls from school, and you think you finally understand how they feel, how they manage to make it look so easy to just exist.

You drink yourself to sleep that night. Well, you black out at some point, and you wake up the next day with the sun, fully clothed, to rush to the toilet and puke your guts out, until you've heaved up all the yellowish frothy liquid and tears are streaming down your face.

You click the light off in your bathroom and slide back to the toilet, because your head is pounding and you still feel ill even though there is clearly nothing left in your stomach. And all you can think about it how lucky you are that you have a private bathroom, because no one will know this happened, and how soon can you drink again.

You learn quickly that vodka tastes wonderful in the lemonade that Marta, the full-time housekeeper, makes all summer.

Months tick by, your mother and father spend a lot of tense time together. You start to eat dinner 'as a family' every night, they ask you questions six years too late and you feel like you've fallen down a well and they're leaning over it asking you your favorite color.

You're counting the minutes until they go to bed so you can get back into the liquor cabinet and not have to deal with this stifling atmosphere.

A week before your 13th birthday your parents sit you down and tell you that you're going to have a sibling, and isn't it wonderful, and oh Jade, you're going to be a great big sister.

You stare at them blankly, and ask them why they think having another child would solve anything. Your father yells, and your mother cries, and you say whatever, and stomp up to your room, slamming the door. You reach for bottle you keep under your bed, because you can't always predict when they'll be in the sitting room anymore now that they've decided to be parents again.

A guidance counselor at school has called them because you destroyed a boy's textbooks with a pair of scissors one day. They sit you down and demand answers, you're silent until they ask if you're acting out because of the new baby on the way, and you explode. You don't hold back, you blame them for everything, and lay into them for neglect and when they're suitably chastised you produce the brochure for Hollywood Arts, a prestigious, audition-only school you forged their signatures to audition for.

You were accepted. You couldn't believe it.

You expect your father to turn purple in his anger, he's said it often enough, no daughter of his was going to waste her life trying to act and sing and dance around on a stage!

You expect your mother to be hesitant and doubtful.

But you played them well and as they try to recover from the talking to you gave them, they just give in, and you're allowed to go.

Your hand shakes a little when you pour the first drink that night, because you _don't_ feel guilty for manipulating their emotions like that; you think you're losing your humanity a little, and it scares you, but alcohol helps, so you pour another. It's a celebration after all—you're going to Hollywood Arts!

~13 years old~

You get a reputation in school in a matter of days.

First, you passed the Bird Scene on your first try. People are impressed, but the truth isn't that you're confident and self-assured and scary. The truth is that you're scared, of rejection, of loneliness, of pain, of change, of the unknown. And the best way you've learned to protect yourself from your fears is to not care. So, you perform the scene, and you sit down, because you're not going to ask if it was right, if it was okay, because that just gives the other person the opportunity to say no, no Jade, you're wrong again.

Second, you scare away all the people who welcome you to the school, with mild curiosity and pretend interest in their eyes. They scatter when you yell. No one tries again.

You congratulate yourself on scaring away more people who would only hurt you; you congratulate yourself on being right. Because you seem to need more than what anyone can offer you, and it's better to be the one rejecting, then be the one left needing. Your parents taught you that. Not with their words maybe, but definitely with their actions.

The first time you speak to Beck you feel like you're staring into a black hole of feelings you'd thought you lost and it's terrifying. He gives you a charming smile as he tousles his hair and you hate him, because he makes it all look so easy.

He's one of those people who falls into friendships without even trying, someone who is truly self-assured without being cocky, he's effortless and it hurts to even look at him.

So, you glare. You expect him to cower, and he doesn't.

So, you snap at him to go away. You expect him to flinch and flee, and he doesn't.

So, you leave. You run really, even if you're stomping away. It's running away on the inside, because you're afraid of this boy who isn't afraid of you.

He brings you coffee the next day and your heart beats faster, and for the first time you wonder if it's nerves instead of fear, or anger, or pain. You don't want this boy to come into your life and turn it all upside down, you can't handle the change. You're not ready for this, you're not equip to handle it.

You should be more careful with your drinking now that you attend Hollywood Arts, because you can't fade into the woodwork so easily, you perform and hold other's attention. You think maybe this will make you not drink anymore; it seems to have the opposite effect. The pressure is immense, and entirely self-created. But alcohol relieves it, always seems to help, no matter the situation.

People seem to think your angry, bitter façade is the same as how you wear your dark clothes and colored hair extensions, but they don't understand that you aren't choosing to be that way, because you don't have the option not to be.

You feel like you everyone around you got this handbook called 'LIFE' and your didn't.

You dump the coffee he buys you in the trash, with the excuse that it's too creamy, not sweet enough, anything but the truth. He can't buy you coffee like that, pretend to care, because you won't survive it.

This boy is like a planet, drawing you into its orbit, and you can't handle the intensity that it offers.

But he persists, and you're powerless to prevent yourself from falling for him.

The whole thing is baffling on the best of days. Beck Oliver is a cool guy; every girl wants to be with him and every guy wants to be like him. He's immensely talented, kind and funny. He doesn't have the glaring faults that you know you do. He doesn't pour alcohol on all his problems.

You want to hate him for his easy perfection, but you can't help but like him. He brings you coffee in the mornings (he doesn't seem to notice how your hands shake before you drink it), and he asks you about your day, and he laughs when you're this side of cruel, and rolls his eyes good naturedly when you're just that side of cruel.

He convinces you to sit at a table with some of his friends, the perky redhead from your biology class, Cat, the black songwriter, Andre, and the freak with the puppet, Robbie. As well as three giggling blondes vying for his attention.

You choke back a gag at their desperation, and wonder if the only concern running through their heads at any given time is ohmagawhd Beck is soo hot, I wonder if he likes me?! You wonder what it would be like to only have that to worry about. Freeing, you think.

He introduces you and it's paralyzing, but Cat is (extremely) friendly and Andre and Beck laugh when you flick yogurt at the puppet for hitting on you derogatorily. It's the most overwhelmingly stimulating 30 minutes of your life and you can't wait to get home and take a drink (because it's always one drink, that never stops at just one).

Your mother is in her eighth month of her pregnancy when the baby cracks a rib and she's moaning so much they give her mild painkillers. Your father screams when he finds out, but you've seen how pleasantly your mother behaved on the pills and you steal them while your parents are yelling.

You don't waste time, taking three and washing it down with whatever you have under the bed that week—gin, it seems—before cranking your music up and flopping back on the bed.

You're reminded of how much you loathed the silence when you were younger, but you feel warm right now, and kind of fuzzy. The room, which is black and red and dark, is soft now, and you marvel at how well these painkillers work. Your mother had wanted them for a broken rib, but they worked amazingly on all the pain you have but can't point to.

You envied your mother for a moment, for having that broken rib as an excuse. She could point to it and everyone would nod, yes, she was injured and thus in pain. You wished for a moment that you had a physical injury that would justify all the pain you felt. You wished to fall into a coma, just for a year or so, and when you woke up, everyone would have missed you, and they would value you, and they would love you, and listen to you.

You bring the pills with you to school, they don't make your breath smell the way alcohol does, so, you hide them in an old altoid mint tin. When Beck corners you at her locker right before lunch again, you casually slip one into her mouth as you follow him. Then two.

You run out of the pills eventually and can't think of a reason that you would be able to get more without alerting the adults currently ignoring you that maybe you aren't _fine_. It's frustrating, but you just return to your drinking.

~14 years old~

Beck asks you to go on a date with him and you feel the panic setting into your body like rigor mortis. You snap out a no, slamming your locker and attempting to flee, but he grabs your arm.

He stares down at you imploringly, and you wonder what he sees, because no one has ever looked at you like this. You wonder if maybe you look as broken as you feel, if he can see the cracks, if he cares.

You rip your arm from him, and threaten him harshly, something extra terrible to get it through his thick skull that you're dangerous, you're _rotting_ and if he gets too close, it will spread to him too.

He lets you go, hand shoved casually in his pockets and lips pursed slightly, staring after you.

You tell your mother you want to get your bellybutton pierced when you get home from school. She's holding the new baby and there isn't a nanny in sight.

You resent the new baby because he awoke some maternal instinct inside your mother that you didn't. You know it's not his fault, your little brother, but you don't care.

Your mother looks alarmed at your emotional state, and point blank refuses to talk about the possibility. You tell her maybe you'll get a tongue piercing instead and she finally snaps, yelling at you to not pierce your fucking face, goddammnit, you're only 14. The baby wails and she forgets you exist.

You storm out of the house and scour the city for a tattoo parlor willing to overlook your age. When you finally find a place, a skinny guy with jet black hair looks you up and down before laughing. He calls himself Razor and you mock him for being unoriginal and pedantic.

He pierces your eyebrow and nose and when you wince he laughs again. You fish out the altoid tin only to remember the pills are gone and huff.

You turn to him appraisingly, he did pierce an underage girl only a minute ago, and what have you got to lose. You ask him point blank if he's got any hydrocodone.

He blinks for a minute before he gives you a number of a friend to call, explaining that he's into a wee bit harder stuff at this point, but Mildew could hook you up with any narcotic you wanted.

He hands you his card as well, and flippantly mentions that he's around for when you want your first tattoo. You take the card numbly, feeling like this is something momentous, dangerous, wrong, and yet you really feel nothing.

Maybe you're a little eager, for the pills, and for a tattoo.

Your parents freak out over the 'jewelry in your face' and you lap it up. You're the center of their attention at that moment and it doesn't feel so terrible. And really, you know they don't really care, because they get tired of yelling at you eventually and actions speak louder than words.

You're really sick of feeling like this, of forcing a reaction from your parents and then hating the reaction they give you. Your thoughts stray to Beck, and you wonder if you've ruined that relationship before it even started as well.

You tell yourself that you won't drink tonight, because suddenly you can't remember exactly when the last night you went without was, and you can't remember how many drinks you had last night, and you can't remember actually going to bed. It didn't seem important.

You still drink tonight. You _had_ to.

Beck is waiting for you at your locker in the morning, causal and handsome, holding the largest size Jet Brew sells. You walk up to him and start to open your locker, ignoring his presence, because you don't have the words he's looking for.

He's silent for a moment then he holds the coffee out like a peace offering, and he says something witty and charming like always, and he asks you nicely to please go out with him this weekend.

Maybe it's the dull pounding in your head, a constant reminder that you aren't _fine_ , that you are drowning really slowly and really quietly, and no one notices, but you say yes. Well, you say fine, but he knows what you mean.

Things get a little better and a little worse when you start dating Beck. He's amazing and intelligent and funny and dorky in the best way possible. You don't drink as much as you used to, and you think he's maybe fixing you. Making you a better person.

But you're desperately afraid of losing him, the closer you get to him. The other girls are always hovering around him and it makes you crazy. You feel like you've put him under a spell and you live in the constant fear that someone is going to come along and wake him up, and then he'll leave you just like everyone else.

When he asks you to be his girlfriend you almost laugh at him, because you'd thought he was going to tell you he didn't want to see you anymore, after all, you'd cut a chunk of blond hair off a girls' head earlier that day.

He kisses you gently and tells you that you don't need to be jealous anymore, because now you're his girlfriend, his one and only. You smile at him sappily, and you feel like you have him.

But you've never had anyone before, and you don't know how to keep him, and the girls don't stop throwing themselves at him and he doesn't seem to care that much that they do. And pretty as his words are, actions speak louder, and he doesn't act that upset.

He pulls you by the hand one day, into the janitors' closet, and spins to face you. He's angry at you, and it doesn't feel nice at all, but you know how to deal with other people's anger, so you shout right back, and you fight dirty because you fight to wound, to win.

You accuse him of liking to string along other girls, of not caring for you at all, of not being able to leave his player ways behind him, of regretting getting together with you but not being ballsy enough to just fucking tell you. He looks at you like you've lost your mind, and you feel like you have. You can't stand here in front of him with him looking at you like this, like he's about to leave you behind.

So, you do what you think you must; you leave him behind first.

You text Mildew that night, once you've had a few drinks, and mention that Razor gave you his contact information. It's not lost on you that you should be texting friends, and crushes and Beck like this, and not older drug dealers you've never met before, with names like Mildew.

Mildew picks you up two blocks from your house in a tinted beat-up Jeep, and drives around for a few minutes making small talk.

You cut him off, annoyed, and demand he cut to the chase, this is a drug deal not Oprah. He seems startled but amused at your reaction and rattles of prices.

You'd done a moderate amount of research; more than you'd done the first time you stole the pills from your mother. You think you sound decently knowledgeable and Mildew drops you off on a different block, similarly close to your house, and you're 300 bucks lighter, but carrying a variety of pills you can't wait to lose yourself in.

Beck had called while you were in the car with Mildew and you feel dirty all the sudden. Not from the drug deal you just made, but because you had done it while Beck was trying to reach you.

You want to call him back but you can't. So, you take some of your pills and you write all night. At least your pain is inspiring.

The weekend passes in a blur, and you think you've got the perfect dose of things to get you through the next day.

You approach Beck before first period, and your stomach is full of Xanax and Percocet and oatmeal. You look down when he turns to face you, because you can't look into those eyes before you get out that you're sorry, you're so fucking sorry.

His hand tilts your chin up to meet his eyes and he frowns before sighing softly, he asks you why you don't trust him and all those _things_ you never had anyone to tell almost spill from your lips like vomit. But you can't give him that, the upper hand in your life. You're not ready for that vulnerability.

You tell him it's not him you don't trust, but trust is earned and proven you don't just start with it, and maybe you can't trust at all. He frowns, again, at your messy admission, but his fingers trace your cheek gently.

He asks you how to prove it to you that he's worth trusting and you can't think of anything. Time, you say eventually, helplessly.

He looks determined and you wonder if it'll be enough.

Things are better after that, but maybe it's just the pills. Because he dotes on you, yes, but he doesn't discourage the flirting nearly enough. And maybe if you just told him that his words don't mean anything if his actions are telling a different story, maybe things would actually be better.

~15 years old~

You've been dating for five months when he sees you drink for the first time. You're at a small house party that Andre's friend Rommel is throwing.

Beck picks you up and you arrive together, hands laced together. You wonder if you'll ever get over the feeling of his hand wrapped around yours, you're learning quickly that it's the small intimate gestures that you love so much, over the more overt displays of affection. The fact that he wants to be touching you, whenever he can, is grounding. When he kisses you, you remember the first time you met him, and it's like falling into an oxygen-less black hole.

He pulls you over to greet his, and your you suppose, friends, before leading you to the makeshift bar. He asks you if you want to try a drink, pulling two beers out of the bucket of ice, and you bite your tongue for the acerbic response about how much you need that fucking drink.

He's looking at you with the same expression he wears when you're making out, like he's trying to gauge your reaction, like he doesn't want to pressure you into anything.

You grab the beer from his hands and flip it open. You've had a beer or two, maybe, but you usually keep to the liquor cabinet and thus the heavy-duty stuff.

The beer makes bubbly steam come from your nose and you make a disgusted face, Beck laughs gently and grins at you. You shove the beer into his hands and set about mixing a real drink for yourself.

He watches you with raised eyebrows, as you pour a generous portion of vodka—ugh the cheap kind—into a red solo cup, diluting it with the coke mixer left out. You clink your cup into his beer can and down the whole drink in one long pull.

He's staring at you in disbelief when you finished and meet his eyes and you're filled with dread immediately, what had possessed you to do that, you were only 15 you shouldn't be able to do that.

Luckily Beck is drawn into another conversation and you take the opportunity to pour another drink. You think for a moment that it seems like an odd solution to the current problem, but it's like walking down a path with no fork in the road, the only way is forward.

You watch your peers devolve into messy creatures rapidly. They dance and slur and laugh freely, and you join them. Cat hugs you over and over, and you let her. You lose track of Beck for a while and find yourself a little drunker.

When his arms slide around your waist a while later you turn to throw your arms around him, almost spilling the contents of your cup. You fawn over him and he holds you securely, his mouth is set in a worried line.

You try to kiss it better and he tries to take your cup. He quietly asks you if you've had enough to drink, and maybe you should stop, and can he take you home.

You step back in shock, and then in anger, because how fucking dare he. You knew yourself, and you know what you can handle, who did he think he was coming in here and pretending to care. You throw back the contents of the cup, gulping it down and crushing the cup challengingly.

Beck downright glares at you now, grabs your wrist and pulls you with him. You're too shocked to react and retaliate in anger, before he has you in the car, buckling you up before you come up with a suitably cruel response to his manhandling.

You yell at him as soon as he starts driving, but he ignores you. Soon enough you've pulled up in front of your house and you're seething. He turns to face you and reaches over to touch your cheek, but you slap his hand away.

You tell him he's not your keeper, and he doesn't have the right to tell you what you can and cannot put into your body. He lets out a sigh of frustration, saying your name in that way, that always makes you wonder if maybe he cares about you more than anyone else in the world does, and he tells you he was just worried, that you drank a lot and he didn't want you to feel sick.

You laugh bitterly, and mutter about how it would take a lot more than that to make you sick. And you unclip your seatbelt when you feel his hand on your thigh.

He looks intense and you gulp, you're not sure if this is a good intense or a bad intense, you're drunker than you thought you were, and simultaneously you're not drunk enough because, fuck you're going to remember this.

Beck says clearly that tonight he wants you to get some rest, but that he isn't done talking about this, and to expect to have a conversation soon.

You avoid him the rest of the weekend, but he's waiting for you at your locker before school, coffee in hand. You wonder briefly as you approach, what will finally drive this boy away, it's inevitable after all.

He asks how you feel, gentle and concerned, and you say fine. You aren't really sure if it's a lie anymore, you've been saying it regardless of how you actually feel for what feels like forever.

You wonder for a sickening moment when you stopped being able to tell the truth from the lies.

Beck asks you to come over that evening, offers to make box mac and cheese and watch a movie in his RV. You know he wants to talk about things, you feel the lie rolling out of your mouth before you snap it shut, because you don't want to lose him, you can't.

So, you agree to come over, and prepare yourself.

You tell him about your life growing up. Your father worked and your mother absent, and the string of nannies you stopped expecting to stay (lie). You tell him about the affair and how your parents decided to suddenly start being parents, how your little brother is like some sort of glue for all the damage you did to their relationship.

You can't find it in yourself to talk about the drinking. You think maybe he won't ask, because you're good at keeping it hidden, no one else suspects a thing.

But he does. He grips your hand tightly and asks about the other night, he asks you when you first started drinking and how much you drank and why.

 _Why_.

You snort at him, acting like a delicate little flower, and explain that alcohol is incredible, if it happened to escape his notice lots of people agree. It was fun, and liberating, and it made you feel good. Did he not want you to feel good?

He backed off. For now.

He tells you he loves you on your 6th month anniversary, you're playing mini golf and kissing more than you're putting.

You tell him you love him too, and a tear slips down your cheek because you realize that you've never said that before. Not 'I love you', but 'I love you, too'.

~16 years old~

He finds the pills one morning, after you've slept over. You do that once a week or so, only ever on the weekends, as his parents think it's hardly appropriate for you to be staying over at all.

They hate you. It's unsurprising, but condemning, you're a bad influence on him. You're corrupting him.

You exit his bathroom to find him staring into the altoid tin, his hair in his eyes. You freeze for a moment, a hundred lies flashing through your mind, and foolishly you think maybe he won't realize they aren't mints. Ha.

He looks so bewildered and lost when he fingers the different pills in the tin, and you want to snatch them away from him. You feel more naked with him staring down at your self-prescribed medicine than you did last night, when you were truly naked.

He begs you to be honest with him and you can't find the right words, not with him staring at you like that. You turn away and pick at the skin around your nails, and you tell him that they make you feel better, they dull life a little.

He says your name like he's in anguish and despite all the times he's told you he loves you, you really believe him in that moment. When you turn around he's gripping the tin with whitened knuckles, and he looks like he's about to cry.

You rush to explain that you don't need them or anything, it's not like you have a problem. They're just… pleasant. He could try one?

He looks revolted and you feel ashamed of yourself. He's revolted by you.

Fear bubbles up and transforms itself into anger before you even make the decision to go that route. You make to snatch the tin away from him but he moves it away.

He looks calm now and he grips your upper arms tightly, too tightly, and shakes you. He's angry, but not because he's revolted, he's angry because he loves you and he's worried about you. And how could you do something like this, what would he do without you, this was dangerous, and it needed to stop.

You tear your eyes away from his, to the tin laying on the floor between you, and you think that Beck is more important than the pills. You looks back up at him and you nod frantically, you'll do what he wants, if he just stays with you.

You flush the pills down the toilet together, and he insists on coming over to your house to get rid of the other ones, in exchange for not telling your parents. He wants to talk more, but you're exhausted in ways you didn't know possible.

You feel raw.

He stays with you that night too, after you flush your whole stash at home and end up having a minor panic attack that only ended when you demanded that he tell you he loves you and he holds your face between his hands and repeats it until you stop shaking.

You know you're a nightmare, a gank, but when you beg Beck to tell you that he loves you and he does, you feel like you can take that next breath.

You love being with him, only with him. You can breathe and laugh and things feel better than _fine_.

You wonder if you're extremely lucky to have Beck (as everyone in the outside world seems to think), or if you're extremely unlucky to have someone like Beck when you aren't right enough for him.

You feel a little bit empty all the time, and you think it shows, so you shut your walls tighter, make things harder, fight everything and everyone around you. You're just worried that if you stop fighting, stop clinging to the anger, then the vast emptiness of apathy will swallow you up and no one will notice.

You don't drink around Beck, he's begged you to stop altogether, after the pills incident, but you can't. However much you love him—and you love him more than any emotion you've ever had all combined—you can't do that for him. You can't even do it for yourself.

Things are steady though, before Tori Vega crashes into your duct-taped life.

She's everything you're not. She's skinny, and tan and pretty. She has friends, and laughs and she's painfully nice, naïve to bitterness, and she's… happy.

You know you're in the wrong for what you do to her on her first day, you haven't done anything like that in a long time, but you resent this girl so much because you think she could so easily replace you and no one would notice, or worse, they would welcome it.

And then your worst fears are confirmed. They kiss on that stage, and everyone claps and cheers. You feel a little piece of the heart you try so hard not to have, snap away and wither inside you.

Beck's words wash over your skin, it didn't mean anything, we owed her for how badly you acted on her first day, he loves you, he loves only you, he loves you.

You give in eventually, because you realize that his words may not revive that piece of your heart you lost, but your love for him is still consuming, and you can't live without him. You lie, and say you believe him.

You text Mildew that night, and pick up for the first time in months.

When Beck is in Canada you go get that tattoo from Razor, and the pain is so wonderfully distracting you wish it didn't end when he says its finished. Anything to not be inside your own head.

Beck frowns at you when he gets back, and strokes the newly marked skin. He peppers kisses along your forearm and you smile, you love him so much.

You stay the night in his RV that night, and with his hot breath fanning across your neck as he holds you tight against his chest, you think maybe he can save you from yourself if he just stays.

Things are rocky. Vega is everywhere and you can't seem to get a reprieve. She steals all the roles, your friends love her, your boyfriend gets along with her.

Even when things are good, and Beck is playing with your fingers, and your legs are thrown across his lap, and you feel physically secure, you feel a little empty. He doesn't see you take the pills, he doesn't notice that your eyes are foggy and your emotions forced. Vega has one disaster or a plan after another, and he's too fucking busy to notice something so trivial as your descent into misery.

You pick fights so he will soothe you. You force him to react the way you need him too, but you wonder how long this will work, it's never worked this long before. After all, your parents gave up on you're a long time ago.

You wake up one morning, a few weeks before school starts back up, and look into the mirror. You vaguely recollect buying the hair dye, and remember absolutely nothing of the actual dying process. But you like it.

You think maybe, you can be a new person like this. You'll change like your hair changed so easily, and you won't need to drink anymore. Because it's not fun anymore, and that doesn't seem to phase you. But this new Jade, with the black hair, she won't need to drink anymore.

You still do.

~17 years old~

Your parents force you to babysit your little brother and you don't even wait to put him to bed before you pop a few pills. You rationalize that you won't be too impaired, and you absolutely won't drink until he's already asleep.

You're spiraling faster than before. Unlike before, there aren't those pauses, those moments when you stop spinning and you're in Beck's arms; the spinning doesn't stop anymore.

The drinking and the drugs were supposed to help, but somewhere along the way they took over, eroding your life into a Grand Canon that only they could refill. A solution for a problem created by the same solution. You're stuck in the vicious circle and you don't know how to get out, you wonder if it's even possible. Maybe you're just inherently flawed.

You're going to lose him if you can't pull yourself together. You're going to lose him.

You can't take the words anymore; you just don't believe them. So, you leave the house, and you begin to count. Actions speak louder than words, after all. When Beck chases you, you know that he cares, you know you're worth chasing.

1…2…3…

Your heart is racing and sinking all at once. You've really done it this time, you've shoved him so hard he won't ever be back. You've known all along that there was something wrong with you, an emotional vampire, sucking the life out of anyone who dares get too close, because there was no life to you. You're empty inside, empty of all the good things at least. And now you've lost Beck.

4…5…6…

You hear the scuffle inside the house and you itch to know what's going on. Why he isn't following you yet, and somewhere between 5 and 6 you think maybe this is for the best, because it was bound to happen anyway, and this way you won't have to make eye contact with him as the bottom on your precariously crafted world drops away.

You wouldn't chase after you either.

7…8…9…

You're sick of yourself at this point. Exhausted from having to live with yourself 24/7, and God, to be able to leave you just like everyone else—a dream. You need a fucking drink. You wish you could stop sabotaging everything good in your life; the numbers rolling off your tongue do so without your permission. You think maybe the empty has finally swallowed you.

10.

Involuntarily you step towards the door, you could just pull it open, and say… what? You don't have any pretty words to make this better. You don't have anything to offer. You're empty.

You gather yourself, because inside you feel like you've finally been smashed apart, and you leave the house.

And amongst all the pain and turmoil a small voice, deep inside you, cries out victoriously. You _always_ knew, and now that final thread had been pulled and everything unraveled, confirmed it. Perversely, it felt good.

Besides, you'll always have alcohol to fill the empty.

 **Alcoholism is a serious, progressive and often fatal disease. If you identified with any of these thought patterns or drinking habits maybe think about asking for some help, or hit up an AA meeting-it really saved this author...**


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